


Hit and Run - Part One

by withoutaplease



Series: Hit and Run [1]
Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: F/M, Hate Sex, Smut, Underage Drinking, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-21
Updated: 2019-09-21
Packaged: 2020-10-25 13:36:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20725052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withoutaplease/pseuds/withoutaplease
Summary: A near accident with Reader's new neighbour leads to an accident of a different kind.Note: This is a timestamp series based on my drabble, Cherry Lane.Warnings: smoking, mention of drinking, mention of drugs, language, smut, these characters are not eighteen yet, Billy is an asshole, questionable life choices





	Hit and Run - Part One

_August 19, 1984_

In fairness to your mother, you were the one who passed out without locking your door last night, but pulling open your curtains to let in the sun was still pretty rude of her. You woke up groaning, pulling your sweat-damp comforter between yourself and the day. Seconds later, you heard the Electrolux starting up down the hallway. You cursed softly and dragged yourself up, bed and bones creaking, and steadied yourself on your feet. Out in the hall, your mother smiled smugly. “You going to sleep the whole summer away?” she yelled over the roar of the vacuum.

"I was trying," you muttered, unheard, as you shot her your dirtiest look and shuffled into the bathroom. You made sure to lock the door behind you, and sat on the blessedly cool toilet seat. One problem taken care of, you got up and opened the medicine cabinet to do something about your headache. You spotted the Tylenol and shook three tablets out of the bottle, briefly recalling the big cyanide scare from a couple years back. _Here’s hoping_ you thought, and chased the pills with half a dozen Dixie cupfuls of tap water. Your stomach heaved, then settled down. You started the shower, leaving your pajamas in a heap on the floor, and stood under the lukewarm spray until you felt halfway human again.

"I didn't hear you come in last night," Mom said, not quite accusing you, but not not accusing you. She came into the kitchen to find you standing in a towel, staring blankly into the fridge. "Was it after curfew?"

You took out the electric orange jug of Sunny Delight and opened the cupboard for a glass. "I honestly didn't look at the clock, Mother," you replied, not even sure _how_ you got home last night, let alone when. You poured a tall drink and gulped half of it down.

"Mmm hmm," she said, unimpressed. "Next time it happens, I'm locking the deadbolt."

"Oh, the humanity!" you snarked, and finished the glass. 

"I'm serious," she said. "I told you, my roof, my rules."

"Yes, Mother," you agreed, putting your glass in the sink and going back to the fridge to check the freezer. "Do we have anything to eat?"

"I'm going for groceries this afternoon," she said. "Want to come with?"

You closed the fridge door and looked at her dubiously. "I've got plans," you lied.

She sighed. "Fine. Dinner's at six."

"I'll be there," you said, with no idea if it was true. "Get waffles."

Fifteen minutes later, you stepped out into stifling heat in wet hair, sunglasses, and yesterday's jeans. You squinted, lit up a cigarette, and started the hike downtown in search of a greasy breakfast.

You hit the sidewalk, and were just about to turn your Walkman on when the nails-on-a-blackboard scrape of a very unhappy car engine broke the Sunday morning silence. As you approached the source of the racket, the scrape was replaced by a shouted _Fuck!_, a clang of metal, and then finally the staticky crackle of Motley Crue on a boom box turned too loud. Your head throbbed, you grimaced, and headed over to investigate.

The noise was coming from the vacant house - formerly vacant - across the street and four doors down. Three days ago, you saw the moving truck being unloaded outside, and two cars with California plates parked in the driveway. One of them, the blue Camaro, was sitting there now with its hood up, and your new neighbour was outside working on it. As impressions go, you thought he was shaped nicely enough, but everything about him screamed _on purpose_ \- painted-on jeans, a white wife-beater with one greasy handprint, messy blond hair sprayed just-so into place. He leaned glowering over the engine, cigarette dangling from his lips. You stopped at the foot of the driveway.

“You should put that out,” you shouted, trying to be heard over the boombox.

He looked up at you with big baby blues that might have been pretty if they weren’t so mean. He reached to the workbench behind him and turned off the music. “What’d you say?”

You crushed out your own smoke under your shoe and took a few steps up the driveway. “I said you should put that out,” you repeated. “It’s a good way to blow yourself up.” You tried for a friendly smile. It might have missed the mark.

His eyes flicked up and down in a split-second once-over, but his expression didn't change. “Who are you?"

“Y/N,” you said. “I live up the street.”

He took a long drag. “You know anything about cars, Y/N?” he asked.

You shrugged. “Not really.”

“Then why don’t you let me worry about it,” he said, taking another drag and turning back down to the engine. 

“Fine,” you said, dropping the smile. “Don’t blame me when all that hairspray goes up like a torch.”

He looked up again, plucked the smoke from his lips, and flicked it away deliberately. “You know what a socket wrench is?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“Well, if you want to be helpful, give it here.” He held out his hand and curled his fingers expectantly. The wrench was on the ground near your feet, where he'd thrown it in frustration. You bent to pick it up, keenly aware of his eyes on you, and handed it over. He didn't thank you, and turned right back to the engine again. You huffed, and started to go.

“Hey,” he shouted, stopping you. “You go to the high school, right?”

“Yeah,” you said. “I’ll be a senior.”

“Got any hot friends?” he asked, lips curling up toward a shit-eating grin.

Your jaw fell. “Wow,” you said, and started walking away.

“Guess that’s a no?” he said, chuckling. “Come on, I’m only kidding,” he called as you hit the sidewalk. “. . . Unless you do?”

“Asshole," you muttered, a little louder than intended.

“Bitch,” he replied cheerfully, and turned the music back on. You put on your headphones and let Stevie drown him out while you stormed down the street. It was hours before you realized you still didn't know his name.

*****

_September 21, 1984_

Four weeks later, you were sick to death of hearing the name of Billy Hargrove. Half the school was so far up his ass they could taste hairspray, and your friend group was not immune. A couple of the girls kept pestering you for intel like you had nothing better to do than stake out his house from your bathroom window. You couldn't understand why. As far as you could see, the guy was an open book, and the story was nothing but pulp.

Just tonight, you got roped into staying after class for the basketball game under the pretense that some guy from the away team could hook you up with shrooms for the weekend. By the end of the third quarter, the shrooms had failed to appear, and your friends were too busy making moon faces to care. Billy was power forward, and every time he got a basket, he puffed up like a peacock at the stands, and their tongues lolled a little further out of their mouths. 

About the time he got his second technical foul of the night, you decided you’d seen enough. You made your apologies and slipped out the side door while he was yelling in the referee’s face, welcoming the cool air and quiet after the fluorescent chaos of the gymnasium. Just before you rounded the corner and the high school slipped out of sight behind you, you heard a distant dull roar rise up. Hawkins won.

The wind picked up as the sky grew darker, and you put up your hood against the cold bite of autumn that crept into it. The leaves were just starting to turn, and even in the twilight, the trees along the twisty stretch of backroad you liked to shortcut across looked like they were catching fire in slow motion. You turned up your music and tried to clear your head and just appreciate the night.

You didn't notice the car until it was right on top of you, the screech of brakes and blaring horn breaking through your headphones. If you screamed, you didn't hear it as you dove off the road and ate it into the gravel shoulder. The rocks bit through the heels of your hands and the knees of your jeans, but you were otherwise okay - if shocked and scared shitless counted as okay. You wheeled around to face the car that almost hit you. It was stopped on the side of the road, and Billy Hargrove stormed around the front of it toward you. "Of course," you said to yourself, feeling around for your Walkman and stuffing it in your jacket pocket. "Where'd you learn to drive, shithead?" you shouted, more than loud enough for him to hear.

"Is that Y/N?" he yelled, coming closer. "I was coming to see if you were okay."

"Yeah, I'm great, I love a good near-death experience," you snarked, stumbling to your feet and ignoring the hand he held out to help you.

"That's a little dramatic," he said. "You look fine to me."

You rounded on him. "You almost fucking killed me! I think the drama is warranted here!"

"Excuse me? You're wearing all black in the middle of the road, but it's my fault you almost got hit?"

"Yeah, ‘cause you drive like an asshole!"

He threw his hands out. "I stopped, didn't I?"

You fumed. "Yes, you’re right, I should thank you, you did the absolute bare minimum to not literally murder me!"

He shook his head and laughed to himself. "You really are a bitch, you know that?"

The shock was wearing off and you were shaking, but mad felt a whole lot better than scared, and you ran with it. “Don’t fucking call me that,” you spat, and thrust out a hand to shove him in the shoulder. 

He caught your wrist. “Bitch,” he repeated slowly. You tried to pull your arm back, but he didn’t let go. “Slut.” He grinned. “Cunt.”

Now you were really shaking, seething, blood pumping in your ears. You could almost hear the air crackling in the short space between you. “Fuck you,” you swore. 

His nostrils flared, and your chest heaved, and you glared bloody daggers at each other. One breath later, your mouths smashed together, and you didn't know if you started it or he did, but it was started now. He shoved his tongue down your throat and clamped you close against him, and you could feel his cock stiffening against your belly. You arched your back and pressed harder. He broke away from your lips to catch a grunting breath, looked down at you, and smirked. “Girls always say they want a nice guy . . .” he said.

You glared back up at him, huffing, wanting to slap the smile off his face, wanting to just turn around and run, wanting to say _fuck it_ and tear all his clothes off. “What’s it gonna be?” he asked, watching the debate play out on your face.

_Fuck it._

“Shut up,” you said, and kissed him again. You could feel his cocky smile against your lips. He walked you backwards to the car, and pressed you against the side of it. He dragged his lips down to your throat and you let your head fall back, sighing, giving in. He reached over to open the door and push the front seat down, and you let him pull you into the back of the Camaro.

There wasn’t much preamble. He wrestled your shirt and bra off, left your jeans and panties dangling off one ankle, and leaned across to the front to dig a condom out of the glovebox. Then he shoved his jeans down to his knees, and grinned at you as his cock stood up. “You like that?” he said, and you rolled your eyes.

“Shut up,” you repeated. He laughed and put the condom on, and you straddled him. 

“Wants to be on top,” he said, grinning up at you. “I may have underestimated you.”

“Oh my god,” you said. “You need to stop.”

“You gonna stop me?” 

You were half a breath away from deciding that maybe, actually, you were, but then he grabbed you by the waist and pulled you down onto him, and both of you gasped at the heat of it. He grabbed a handful of your hair, and you swiveled your hips, and the windows fogged up, and the world went red.

It didn’t take long. You ground down on his cock like you were trying to bust out of your skin, like the anger and the fear and the want of the night were a powder keg in your belly, and you just needed to strike a spark. "Yeah," he breathed, squeezing his fingers tighter into his fistful of your hair, "ride me." 

_Shut up_, you thought, and the spark caught fire. 

You came with a cry, and he whispered, "fuck yeah," and when your rhythm started to stutter, he grabbed you by both hips to keep you moving. He moaned and popped off just as your orgasm subsided, all your anger and adrenaline spent.

For the next dozen heartbeats, neither of you moved, and everything went eerie quiet except for a cricket chirping outside and your own soft, slowing panting. “Uhh,” he said quietly, breaking the silence, “you wanna . . .?” He motioned with his head for you to move. 

“Yeah,” you said, shaking your head, trying to clear it. He’d gone half-soft, and you slid carefully off his lap to sit back in the seat. You avoided his eyes, and started to dress.

“Well, _that_ was -” he started.

“That was an accident,” you interrupted quickly, shimmying your jeans back up over your hips.

He raised an eyebrow. “Oh yeah?” he asked, holding your bra out to you. "Cause you seemed to enjoy it."

You snatched it out of his hand. "I mean it."

“All right," he said, shaking his head and buckling his belt.

“It’s not gonna happen again,” you insisted, pulling your head through the neck of your sweater. 

“All right, I said. Don’t flatter yourself.”

You scoffed. “Whatever.” You slid your feet into your boots and opened the passenger door with a creak. Billy lit up a smoke and stepped out on the driver’s side as you got out into the gravel.

For a second, he just stared and smoked in silence. Then he gestured down the street. “You want me to take you home?” he said, like it was some kind of gallant gesture.

You slammed door and took a step back. “I think I'll walk,” you said. "You can’t drive for shit."

He laughed. “Suit yourself,” he said. “Headcase.” He climbed into the car, started the engine, and sped away, leaving a dust cloud for you to choke on. You watched until his taillights disappeared around the bend, and the night felt calm and sane again. You lit up a smoke and put on your headphones. Tired, numb, and three kinds of sore, you started walking for home.


End file.
